The Virgin's Debt

By Tatiana March

Melisande, Duchess of Gifford, has enjoyed running wild since surviving her unhappy marriage – but she knows it's only a matter of time before her brother forces her to settle down and be respectable. Determined to make herself free, Melisande decides to escape into ruined exile with an absolutely scandalous affair and leave London forever. But her heart may have other plans when she meets intriguing Lord Grayson Sanbourne…

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jan 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781460893180

Tatiana March

Tatiana March writes contemporary and historical romance, as well as romantic suspense. In her spare time, Tatiana enjoys hiking and camping, particularly in Arizona where some of her historical novels are set. Tatiana lives in Buckinghamshire in the UK.

Book preview

Chapter One

Scotland, 1540

They were going to kill her anyway, so she let her contempt show.

Katrina McLeod glared at the three men in front of her. Like apostles of a pagan god, they sat behind the table of roughly hewn pine, their faces frozen in pious outrage. Behind her, she could hear the rustle of skirts as the two women ordered to witness her interrogation shifted restlessly on their feet.

‘Can you see the devil?’ asked Jonathan Crawford, the leader of the court.

‘Aye.’ Katrina gave the man a firm nod. ‘I can see the devil clearly.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘He is tall and gaunt, dressed in a grey doublet and a thick black coat with a patch over one elbow.’ She directed an unblinking stare at Crawford as she described his appearance.

The man’s narrow face twisted with fury. He lurched forward, arms outstretched, as though wanting to strangle her with his bare hands. Katrina recoiled. For an instant, the mental wall she had erected around her fear shattered, and images of what awaited her broke through.

They would burn her on the stake. Flames would lick at her feet, and then grow into a roaring inferno that consumed her. How long did it take to die by fire? Did your flesh scorch or melt? Could she tolerate the pain, or would she in her last moments lose her sanity and enter eternity in the grip of madness?

At the rear of the room, the door opened and shut with a slam. Footsteps thudded across the floor in an odd rhythm of clomp and drag. A cold draft swirled around Katrina’s bare feet, fluttering the hem of the long white linen robe she’d been ordered to change into for the trial.

In front of her, Jonathan Crawford surged to his feet. ‘Baron Rothmore.’

‘It’s no longer Baron Rothmore. Just Rothmore.’

The deep voice drew goose bumps on her skin. Katrina whirled. A sound of surprise caught in her throat as she saw the newcomer. Lean, broad shouldered and no more than medium height, he was dressed like a working man, in dark breeches and a plain white shirt under a black coat. But despite the simplicity of his garments, they were made from the finest of fabrics, and on his feet he wore tall boots in gleaming black leather.

Drawn by her startled cry, the stranger gave Katrina a sharp look before abruptly glancing away. The expression on his face hardened. An instant later, his eyes returned to linger on her, although she got the impression that he regarded her with reluctance.

‘What is this all about?’ he asked, his manner gruff. ‘Why has my presence been requested?’

‘It is Baron Rothmore we sent for,’ Crawford informed him.

‘My cousin is the Baron now and he is busy,’ the man said. ‘You’ve got to deal with me or manage without.’

‘We need the Baron’s authority to condemn Katrina MacLelland as a witch.’

Katrina flinched. She’d misled the villagers about her name, and chose not to correct it now. If she suddenly claimed to be of noble birth, no one would believe her. She would be branded a liar, which would only make matters worse.

‘A witch?’ The man turned to Katrina. ‘Is that what they think you are?’

Her gaze collided with his, and the room faded away. His eyes were a clear golden-brown, like those of an eagle, and in them she detected a suffering that made her want to reach out and lay her hand against his stubble-shadowed cheek.

The stranger had the rugged Highland looks, with sharp angles and planes to his features, softened by a sensual wide mouth. Thick locks of brown hair fell to his shoulders, shiny and untangled. Everything about his appearance spoke of an odd mix of a commoner and a nobleman.

‘That is what they say,’ Katrina told him in a low voice. ‘That I’m a witch.’

‘I beg you not to address the prisoner,’ Crawford cried.

The newcomer shifted his attention to the three men behind the pine table. ‘I’ll address whomever I wish,’ he declared bluntly. ‘Why is this woman accused of witchcraft?’

‘She cast a spell on my brother. Despite his God-fearing nature, he has become besotted. A week ago, he offered to marry this penniless slut who appeared from nowhere a month ago. Out of torment, the woman rejected him, and last night she put a spell on him and made him forget God’s commandments. She almost tricked him into fornication.’

Katrina’s hands clenched into fists as she recalled how Kenneth Crawford had accosted her at the cemetery last night. People had seen her fleeing past the church. Her torn clothing, together with the fact that the incident took place on sacred ground, had triggered the accusations of an alliance with the powers of darkness.

‘I see.’ Rothmore rubbed his fingers along his jaw in a thoughtful gesture. ‘Has there been a physical investigation for marks of the Devil on her body? Has her skin been pricked with a witch-needle to see if she bleeds?’

‘Not yet.’ Crawford’s eyes narrowed. ‘We haven’t progressed that far.’

‘Let’s not waste any more time.’ Rothmore gestured at the two witnesses.

The women stepped forward. Plain cloth caps covered their tightly pinned hair, and shapeless brown garments hid the contours of their bodies. Their faces remained carefully empty of expression. Only their eyes seemed alive, and in them Katrina detected a flicker of pity that gave her some consolation.

‘Strip her naked,’ Crawford ordered.

The women glanced at Rothmore for confirmation.

He shook his head. ‘Just lower the robe down to her waist.’

Katrina closed her eyes in an attempt to hide her shame. She stood in the centre of the room, her body rigid as the women undid the buttons on her white linen shift and pushed the fabric down her shoulders, releasing her arms from the sleeves and bunching the folds around her waist.

‘Are you cold?’ The question came in the deep voice that made her skin tingle.

‘Yes,’ Katrina murmured, without opening her eyes.

She heard the odd halting footsteps again, and the clanking of an iron poker against the hearth as someone stirred the dying embers. Another